


Never Forgotten

by Gomboc123



Series: Royai Week 2016 [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Royai Week, just all the royai angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7140005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gomboc123/pseuds/Gomboc123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They can never forget what they did in Ishval; not when the name of every person they’ve killed is seared onto their skin in a never ending catalog of blood. AU. Written for day 4 of Royai Week 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in an AU in which after someone kills another person, the victim’s name appears as a tattoo somewhere on the killer’s skin. It’s been three straight days of fluff so far, so I figure it was time to break out one of my awful AUs.  
> This is a story idea that I really would like to explore further, because it has so much more potential than just a one shot, but I’m still fairly pleased with how it turned out. I may write more about this in the future.  
> Thanks so much on the positive feedback on everything so far! I hope everyone enjoys this too!

Everyone claims the first name is the worst to endure. It burns itself into the skin right above a person’s heart, in inky obsidian letters as the life fades out of the victim of their murder. It is a sharp pain, only comparable to the sensation of burning oneself on a hot stove, or by sticking a hand in a candle flame. It lasts a mere five seconds- long enough to hurt, but short enough not to hinder any human activity which might be going on. It is a stinging reminder of a mistake- an atrocity- that is meant to serve as a visual memorial, but not yet a punishment. The first name hurts, but it has nothing on even just the second.

Cadet Hawkeye pulls the trigger again on her rifle, her motions practiced and fluid. She knows what will come, but her experience allows her to slow her breathing and line up her shot with as much care as a single person could give. She fires, and drops the rifle as she feels something rip through the back of her neck. She doubles over, clutching the stinging spot, hoping the noise of her wheezing and falling supplies won’t give her location away.

Hawkeye knows she hit her target, because a new name has branded itself onto the nape of her neck, barely below the place her uniform collar ends. She adds another mark the mental tally she began as soon as she ventured into the white-hot desert, and almost bursts into tears at the realization that she now has 65 confirmed kills.

Soon the pain subsides long enough for Hawkeye to resume her position and blank her mind again, pretending the next kill won’t hurt more. But the illusion never lasts more than one second. Hawkeye will always remember every searing mark left on her body, and every combatant who fell because of her steady aim.

* * *

 

Major Mustang walks through the rubble of the ravaged city, pausing only when the burning becomes too much for him to bear. The names have spread themselves from his chest and are creeping down his legs and up his neck. He thought he even felt one singe itself onto his scalp.

Every explosion he snaps out causes him to collapse; his names are over one thousand now, and each one brings agony worse than what Mustang could ever have imagined in his worst nightmares. He feels the sensation of his own flesh melting off and leaving only bones and ashes behind, like the victims of his alchemy. He feels himself become impaled, his limbs dismembered, and cockroaches crawling beneath his skin as he carries on in his ruthless extinction of entire cities. But eventually, the pain subsides, his eyes cease blacking out, and he endures the worst pain of it all- seeing his brilliant handiwork. Most villages are reduced to heaps of burning embers once left by the Flame Alchemist, but he occasionally sees the odd Ishvalan with blackened guts pilling out of a chest cavity, or with faces resembling melted wax. Mustang has collapsed at the sight of corpses almost as many times as he has from killing them.

He wishes he could run back home to his Aunt and sisters and bury his face in a warm pillow to cry, but he fears that none of them will allow a man almost completely coated in black ink names back into their midst. Who _would_ accept such a demon as family?

* * *

 

By the time they meet, the Major has tattoos running from his jawline down to his toes. The Cadet’s have begun creeping down her thighs and beneath her mess of blonde hair. They catch sight of each other, and after what seems like an eternity of blank staring, they recognize the soldier in front of them.

Both of them have undergone such drastic change that even the look in their eyes are different. The warm fire that once burned behind Mustang’s obsidian orbs is extinguished, leaving only blackness as inky as the words scrawled across almost every inch of his body. The Cadet’s eyes have dulled as well, their brown becoming as dusty and dingy as the barren land surrounding her, holding about as much emotion of the sand.

Neither makes a move toward the other, but neither runs away from the sight of the other monster standing across from them. It takes a screaming Captain to break the trance, and lead the Cadet away from the once-innocent boy she thought she knew.

She looks back, and his he has already turned in the other direction. All she can see is the black back of his head, and his red splattered beige coat flapping in the wind behind him. That image of him in the war is all Hawkeye will have for days, burned into the back of her eyes as substantially as the names burned onto her torso. And even after the war, when she wishes to forget, she can’t bring herself to.

* * *

 

The next time the Major and the Cadet meet, they are joined by Mustang’s friend, Hughes. His list of names is much shorter than Hawkeye’s whose have crept below her knees, and Mustang’s which have begun filling in spaces between other names, slowly turning his entire body black. Hughes assures them that the war is nearing its end, but whether or not the end is in sight, the damage has already been done. Both to the Ishvalan people, and to the skin of everyone fighting in it.

* * *

 

Years after the war, the Major and the Cadet are promoted to the ranks of Colonel and Lieutenant. They remain with the military, despite all they’ve been through, in order to make a change in the world. Even though Mustang worries the world will never truly accept him in it again, he hopes to become Fuhrer, and repent for each of the names scrawled over his muscles and bones. He says that is his goal, but he doesn’t believe that he can ever begin to make up for the atrocity he caused.

Only faces are left untouched by the burning black ink. Letters come to a halt right at a person’s jawline, and reach underneath their hair in rare cases. Mustang’s white face seems almost too bright against the charcoal backdrop, and he has taken to wearing heavy makeup to conceal his neck. Whenever he walks without it, children are frightened, and adults feel the need to berate him. The marks may not hurt physically anymore, but they make forgetting every innocent person who died because of the Flame Alchemist impossible.  

Lieutenant Hawkeye wears turtleneck shirts each day. She ensures her sleeves reach down as far as they can, and has taken to wearing gloves on an everyday basis. Her drab, utilitarian fashion sense alone garners enough attention, but what causes the most stares are the edges of words and letters that somehow manage to creep up above the edge of her high collars, and the one name on her jawline she conceals with foundation as thick as the Colonel’s.

Each officer walks the halls of Central Command with as much dignity as possible, with people whispering behind their backs. They try to ignore it, but murmurs about the exact number of names adorning each somehow slip into their ears.

They slink into the shadows over time, shrouded by darkness rather than stand in the light and scrutiny of good people. The darkness is their only chance at keeping the extent of their guilt and war crimes hidden.

Neither can look into the mirror without wanting to bash it in and stab themselves with the shards of glass. Maybe then, at least the stream of thick, crimson blood would cover one or two black marks.

Showers are difficult, and the Lieutenant drapes a towel over her mirror to prevent even accidents from happening. The Colonel took his off the wall, and it sits in an attic somewhere, collecting dust and obscuring the glass. The mirror is never forgotten either, as its absence invokes as much shame as its presence used to.

* * *

 

It takes years after the war for Colonel Mustang to feel comfortable touching anyone else. His hands, now black as his eyes, seem unfit for human contact. His entire body seems unfit for any kind of touch. He can’t taint anyone else with whatever blood and ink permanently stain his fingers, and he wants to wretch every time he yearns for human contact. Despite being the Flame Alchemist, his entire existence may very well have been encapsulated in ice.

Lieutenant Hawkeye is the one to finally break the walls built around them. Even though she sickens herself as much as Mustang, she is the one who keeps the both of them alive and moving forward. Even though her words don’t apply to herself, she is the one who repeats over and over that the Colonel was only following orders. She tells him he is a good person. And the light finally begins returning to both of their eyes.

The Colonel tries to tell her the same, but Hawkeye is as stubborn as he, and through months and months of bitter, cold loneliness, she is the one he touches first. He feels terrible, wrapping his tainted, bloody hands through her bright hair, but she reassures him all the way through that he is still a good person. And he begins to believe it.

She almost can’t bring herself to brush his long bangs out of his eyes every time they meet, not wanting to get some kind of blood on his face, but with every touch, she sees the fire and determination grow stronger in his eyes.

Rebuilding themselves is a long, arduous process that has its highs, lows, and moments that want to make Hawkeye want to take her gun and splatter her brain onto the wall behind her, but it happens. And eventually, she feels less like a monster walking among men.

* * *

 

Riza Hawkeye is the first person after the Ishvalan War of Extermination who Roy Mustang bares his skin to. After years of guilt, depression, coldness, and dread, he feels almost as comfortable with her as he did when they were both young, innocent teenagers. So he removes his shirt, revealing the black etchings shrouding his chest.

And although his heart leaps out of his chest, and his every muscle fights against him as he does it, Roy manages to show Riza every single name that is imprinted into his skin. She doesn’t balk; she doesn’t stare in abject horror; she doesn’t vomit onto the ground in front of her, or react the way any normal person would.

She understands the pain, the loss, and the soul-crushing burden each black mark of ink means, and she traces each name gently with her fingertips, thinking of the sensation of each one being burned in. The man in front of her has to have upwards of a thousand names covering every inch of available skin not on his face, and all Riza can think about is how much he has suffered.

She is even more reluctant to bare herself, but after Roy’s incredible strength to do so, she manages to unbutton her shirt with trembling fingers, and dump it on the ground with all of his clothes. She soon sheds the rest of her garments, and stands before the man she cares so deeply for showing each and every black tattoo.

He steps closer to her, and does the same thing she did to him, his light black fingertips ghosting along the surface of her skin. His eyes are filled with more emotion than she’s seen in him in the eternity since the war, and she takes his hand in hers and gently squeezes.

Roy continues exploring her ink-stained body and just thinks about the indubitable courage of the woman with him in awe. He knows too well how guilty and terrified she must feel for killing every single person on her tattooed list of names, but he knows she did it not out of malice. He knows she is one of the kindest, warmest people he has ever met, and he wants her to see herself the same way.

The night runs on, both Roy and Riza observing the other in silence for an eternity, until he takes her in his marred black arms and curls up with her in the bed. Soft, ragged breaths are emitted from the both of them, but they smooth out and slow down as they realize they are in safe company. They find a time of peace for the first time in years, and a thousand pound weight is lifted off of their chests.

Both he and she know they are responsible for taking the lives of the hundreds of people whose names read scattered across their flesh, but that night, for the first time in years, they remind themselves that they can repent for their actions, and stop wandering aimlessly in their depressed state. It is possible for them to move past the war which turned them into monsters. And while they never can and never will forget every person etched into their skin, they can begin to forgive themselves and step out into the light.


End file.
